Ill-timed Phone Calls are Winchester Tradition
by HolyCowsAndFlyingPigs
Summary: "Look, I can call back—" "Wouldn't dream of it," Dean said quickly, "It's just a nest of bloodsuckers, nothing I can't handle. Besides, it's been what? Four, five months since we last talked" Seven, Sam corrected silently, and not on friendly terms. Pre-series. Stanford Era. Birthdays! Which aren't as happy as they should be, at least not in the Winchester family.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So this is a little two-shot I'm using to procrastinate my multi-chapter fanfic... so yeah.

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><p><strong>Palo Alto: January 24, 2003<strong>

Sam stretched and rolled out of bed. Saturday had come—_finally –_ and he could relax. For a little while, there wouldn't be a lecture to attend or notes to go over. He had a couple of essays to write, but Saturday morning wasn't the time for that. Wrapping a blanket around his shoulders, he shuffled into the kitchen of the small apartment he rented with two other people and poured himself a bowl of generic-brand Cheerios. No sooner had he sat down at the cluttered table, a dark arm reached across his field of vision and smacked a newspaper on top of a pile of mail.

Luis, AKA the roommate who actually helped pay the rent, grunted a "Morning" and grabbed a bruised banana from the counter. Sam raised an eyebrow.

"You're up early," he observed, noticing the digital clock on the stove read a quarter past eight. "Where you headed?"

"Picking up a shift for someone," Luis answered miserably as he pulled on a sweatshirt. "It's hell." He headed for the door. "Oh, and if Sir Ty Fucking Brady decides to grace us with his presence, tell him he can shove it up his—"

"Yeah," Sam grinned, "I know. This is, what, the third time he's skimped on rent, right? Don't worry, I won't let it slide this time."

"Well, good," Luis said, taking a bite out of the banana. "'Cause it's getting really old really fast. See ya."

"Have fun," Sam said to the sound of a closing door. That left just him and the cereal. And, he thought as he caught sight of the newspaper, the Funny Pages.

He skimmed the headlining article before flipping to the comics. He chuckled under his breath, a little self-consciously, as he read Garfield's misadventures. As he skipped to the next comic, his eyes fell upon a small blurb on the opposite page.

And, well, old habits die hard.

"_A reminder from the Palo Alto Police Department: around this time of year, muggings and other street violence increase in occurrence. Be sure to walk in pairs at night if you have to, but it's suggested that residents stay indoors after dark…_"

A large part of him wanted to ignore the curiosity the blurb provoked, but instinct won over. He quickly flipped to the middle pages of the paper, knowing from years of experience that the unexplainable often hid smack-dab in the middle of the ordinary.

There it was.

It wasn't an editorial, or even a lengthy paragraph, but it was something. Sam read the few sentences that told of the disappearances of several students over the last five months. That was it. No connection between the disappearances and each one spaced out so far apart that the police couldn't make a case (not that they had much to go on). It probably shouldn't have ended up in the newspaper in the first place, had the writer's sister not been the most recent victim.

It was only a hunch, but he had gotten far by going with his gut feeling. But at the same time…

Sam sighed and flicked his bangs out of his eyes. Curse his knack for finding the supernatural. He knew he couldn't look into this case, not with the LSAT looming in the future and the everyday stress of Stanford. He couldn't risk any distraction, no matter who it hurt. Not him, not Luis, not his deadbeat roommate Brady, and not the families who would never see their sons or daughters or friends again.

"But I can't do _nothing_," Sam hissed, crumpling the newspaper in his fist. He reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone. Flipping it open, he scrolled through his list of contacts until he found the only number without a name attached to it. The phone rang three times before the other line was picked up.

"Now is _not_ a good time," an exasperated voice answered the call. Sam winced at the sound of glass shattering and a woman's scream.

"Dean, please tell me you're not on a job right now," Sam said.

"Just another day at the office, Sammy," Dean replied after a long pause and the distinct slick noise of a blade running through something Big and Bad. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Look, I can call back—"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Dean said quickly, "It's just a nest of bloodsuckers, nothing I can't handle. Besides, it's been what? Four, five months since we last talked?" _Seven_, Sam corrected silently, _and not on friendly terms._

"A nest? By yourself?" Sam hissed into the phone. "Are you insane? Please tell me you have Dad with you at least."

"Dad's been sorting through some personal stuff," Dean spat out as he ganked another vampire. "And by that I mean I haven't seen him in the flesh for a while. He calls every now and then, but—" Dean grunted and was thrown against a wall. Sam heard the phone clatter to the floor.

"Dean?" Sam asked, suddenly realizing his brother was sacrificing his focus by talking to him.

"Gimme a second, I gotta take care of something," Dean wheezed. Sam listened, his lips a thin line of worry, as the muffled sounds of a fight came over the phone. "Okay, I'm back."

"You should have backup."

"I _had_ backup," Dean said, feigning bravado, "but he had this weird thing about going somewhere you had to _pay_ to go to school. What a creep, glad I ditched him."

Sam found himself rolling his eyes again. "The word you're looking for is 'college', and there are some things more important than money." _Not that we ever had much of that._

"Right, like women, booze, and cars."

"Sure, Dean, that's _exactly_ what I mean."

"Alright," Dean said, "quit your bitchin'. Look, I know with all the crap that went down with Dad there's only two reasons you'd be calling me. Either you misdialed a Chinese takeout place, or you're in actual trouble: and as much as I hope you're just drunk and hungry, I'm guessing it's the second. So spill."

Sam steeled himself. "I think there's a case in Palo Alto."

"The kidnappings? Naw, I'm pretty sure that's just humans, man," Dean said.

"How did you…"

"I've got my ear to the ground for shit in your area. I know you've got your school… stuff, or whatever, so I looked into it. No case, just some messed up guy with a thing for roofies and raves."

"But—"

"Nothing, trust me, Sammy," Dean assured him. "It's a bust."

"Oh."

"Sorry to disappoint," Dean snorted, "I didn't know you were interested in picking up a hunt for old times' sake."

"I'm not," Sam said sharply.

"Fine, whatever. So that's why you called?" Dean's voice had an odd edge to it. "Just the hunch?"

Sam drummed his fingers against the table. "Yeah, sorry if it took time away from chasing monsters and chicks or whatever it is you do these days. I won't…" his throat clenched when he remembered what he made Dean promise two years ago.

"_If I leave," he said quietly, his back to the motel, "I leave for good. Just like Dad said. And I don't want you to call or visit or check in or _anything_, okay?" _

"_Sammy…"_

_Sam took a deep breath and faced Dean. The look on his older brother's face was enough to make the eighteen-year-old flinch away. "No, Dean, I mean it," he forced himself to say. "I want out, man. I can't be Dad's grunt anymore. It'll be easier this way." _

_He could pinpoint the exact moment Dean realized that this was real, this was happening. His brother's face relaxed into a cool mask just like the one he wore when Dad was giving him hell for something or other. _

"_Right," Dean replied, "Easier." He tilted his head away, brow furrowed. He sniffed and shook away whatever he'd been thinking of. "Sammy," Dean sighed, "Sammy, you gotta do what you gotta do. I'll stay out of your hair."_

"_Promise?"_

_A sad, tired smile that had seen too many goodbyes tweaked the corners of his mouth. "Cross my heart, little brother." _

Dean kept his promise for a long time, longer than Sam thought he would, but as soon as the second of May rolled around, there was a hesitant message left on his answering machine. Sam would be lying if he said he hadn't been happy to hear his brother's voice again.

"I won't, you know," Sam continued awkwardly, "bother you again."

"No, no, Sammy, it's not that. I, uh, just," Dean loudly cleared his throat. "I just thought—never mind, it's not important." Sam pressed the heel of his hand into his eye, rubbing away the remaining grit. Could this conversation get more uncomfortable?

"Okay," he said with finality. He had a paper to write anyway. And he promised to meet that girl from his Latin class (what was her name again? Jenny? Jackie? Something like that; he'd have to figure it out before he left) for coffee. Yeah, he was really too busy to sit around listening to Dean breathe into the phone and stumble over small talk.

There was a pause from Dean's side, like he was waiting for Sam to say something else. He cleared his throat again. "It was nice hearing from you again, Sammy. Don't be—"

Sam hung up without saying goodbye. Dean wouldn't mind—though he had started acting a little weird at the end there. Sam pushed it from his mind and returned to the Funny Pages, smoothing out the wrinkles he'd caused.

By the time he'd finished the comics, his cereal bowl was empty – that included both cheerios and milk—and his feet were freezing. He tucked them up into the blanket and folded the newspaper. He probably should get dressed at some point, the thought crossed his mind lazily. Or he could just keep on sitting here and—

His eyes fell onto the date printed just below the bold font that read _Stanford Weekly_. January twenty-fourth. Huh, he smiled a bit, that was funny. Dean turned twenty-four today; it was his golden birthday. His smile froze. And slowly melted away as the realization hit him.

It was Dean's _birthday_.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Wow, thanks a bunch for all the feedback! I know it's angsty as heck, but... actually, that's all I got. Whoops, sorry. I posted a slightly different version of this chapter on AO3, but I like this one much better. So you're welcome, I guess. Anyway, here's the second part.

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><p><strong>Blue Creek, Minnesota: May 2, 2003<strong>

Dean stuck his hands in the deep pockets of his leather jacket and watched his breath condense into little puffs in the early morning chill. The sun's light was still weak, just barely warming into the pleasant spring day the weatherman promised it would be, but after driving five hours straight, Dean welcomed the bite of the wind keeping him awake.

He leaned back against the hood of the Impala (_his _Impala, finally) and scuffed his boot in the dirt shoulder of the road. His right hand brushed against the plastic burner phone in his pocket and he flinched away from it as if it had bit him.

It wasn't that he was _scared_ to make the call. Dean scoffed at the thought. He was just being… cautious. Which was why he was up at the ass-crack of dawn in the north woods of the Midwest, trying to build up the courage to wish his own brother a happy birthday.

It was nearly a ritual at this point. Dean would drive out to the middle of nowhere, usually after driving all night, park, and watch the sun rise over some backwoods town – or in this case, the actual woods. He'd stare at his cell for a while, think about what he was going to say, then call and leave a message when it was still early enough for Sam to be fast asleep. It was easier like that.

He took a deep breath and held it as he slipped the cell from his pocket, flipping it open with clumsy hands. He deliberately pressed in the number he'd stubbornly memorized so his dad would never "accidentally" happen across it. Dean had known that if Sam didn't want _him _contacting him at college, then any call from Dad definitely wasn't on the table.

As he listened to the ringing tones, he gathered his thoughts. Short and to the point like always, maybe throw in some best wishes from Pastor Jim, nothing too fancy. Just enough so Sammy knew he had… what? Family? A brother who had to drive out to lumberjack country to make a simple phone call? It wasn't something he wanted to think about. Dean shifted uncomfortably. Maybe this had been a bad idea…

"Hello?"

Dean opened and closed his mouth several times before finding his voice. "Uh, hi?" He may not have heard from Sam for a while, but he was pretty sure his voice had been an octave lower last time they talked. He frowned.

"Who's this?" the girl mumbled, obviously half-asleep. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" Dean cleared his throat, completely thrown off his game.

"It's—I mean, uh, sorry. Is this Sam's phone?"

"No telemarketers," came the sleepy reply.

"No, I'm not—" Dean's throat clenched up in frustration. Who did this chick think she was? Also, who the hell picked up someone else's phone? That was just rude. "I'm not selling anything. I just want to talk to Sam."

"He's sleeping." _Perfect_. Dean worked his jaw. That was just great. Not only was he stuck talking to his brother's one night stand, but there was no way he'd be able to get Sam on the line. The girl huffed, getting irritated. "It's four in the morning."

"Yeah, I guess I forgot about the time difference." He hadn't. "Sorry you woke up."

"What?"

"Never mind."

"Okay…" the girl drifted off, sounding more confused than she had started. "Do you want me to give him a message or something?"

Dean paused. Did he?

"No, I'm good," he said eventually.

"Sure?"

"Positive." He heard a rustling on the other line and a fainter voice in the background.

"He's getting up, d'you still wanna talk?" The girl said, then whispered something inaudible to the new voice.

Dean laughed dryly. Not really, no. Not in front of a stranger. "You know what, I think I've got the wrong number."

"Wrong number?" the girl echoed dubiously. "You sure about that?" Dean bit his lip.

"Yeah," he decided, then immediately regretted it. "Uh, hey, um…"

"Jess," the girl supplied warily.

Dean nodded to himself. "Right, Jess. Just—just tell him happy birthday. Got it?"

The muffled voice sounded nearer, and Dean was now sure it was Sam's. "Who's that?"

Jess brought her mouth away from the receiver long enough to say, "Some guy? He sounds kinda shady, but he said he wanted to talk to you." There was a pause.

"Did he say his name?" Sam asked, a hitch in his voice.

Uh oh. That was his cue for a swift exit. He sharply inhaled and took the cell from his ear as Jess replied. Before he could end the call, he caught the strains of Sam's voice through the speaker.

"Dean?"

He took a deep breath, then plastered an unconvincing smile onto his face to, you know, sell the part. "Hiya, Sammy," he winced at the sound of his own voice. "Long time no talk." For a moment, Sam didn't answer and Dean half-hoped, half-feared he was going to hang up.

"Yeah, no kidding."

Dean frowned, unsure whether Sam was just cranky and tired or if he was being passive aggressive on purpose. And Dean had _invented_ passive aggressive non-answers; that was _his _thing. Sam was all about that touchy-feely crap. Or had been. Whatever. Who knew what Sammy was like these days anyway?

"Dean," said Sam. "It's four in the morning."

"Yeah, well," Dean looked down and toed at a rock with his boot, "I'm a couple hours ahead." Sam started laughing. Dean blinked. That was… pleasantly unexpected. It'd been a while since he heard that laugh. "Something funny, bean pole?" And just like that it was like no time had passed.

"Nothing, nothing," Sam sputtered. "Just, what is it with our family and not knowing the appropriate time to call someone? Did you know Pastor Jim called at twelve-oh-one? He said he wanted to be the first to wish me happy birthday."

_Dammit, Jim_, thought Dean. "Sounds like 'im." He cleared his throat. "So it's your birthday, huh?"

"Guess it is."

"Well, this is embarrassing," Dean said, "I'd completely forgotten."

"Shut up. Jerk."

Dean grinned. "Very articulate, Mr. Stanford University." _Bitch_, he added to himself, not yet comfortable enough with this new Sam to say it aloud.

Sam laughed at that, then grew silent. When he spoke again, his voice had sobered. "Dean, about last January—" Dean winced.

"Sammy," he interrupted quickly, "it's really not something that needs to be talked about. It's your birthday, right? Just forget about it."

Sam paused, seeming to debate whether or not to let it go. "Okay, Dean."

Dean rubbed out a smudge on the Impala's hood. "Listen, Sam, I've got the Impala now so—"

"What? Why, did something happen to Dad?" Sam asked. "Is he okay?"

"Huh? Yeah, he's fine," Dean mentally face-palmed. Of course Sam would jump to that. Picturing John without the Impala was like trying to, well, like trying to imagine _John_ without the _Impala_. It just didn't compute. "Baby was giving him some trouble over Christmas, I mean, I told him she couldn't do Colorado mountains in negative degree weather, but you know how Dad is… Anyway, he ditched her at Bobby's so I fixed her up pretty and now she's mine." To make a long story short. The real story involved Bobby kicking John off his property and threatening him with a shot gun loaded with something with a bit more bite than rock salt, but that was all water under the bridge.

Well, Bobby still wouldn't acknowledge John's existence and it put Dean in an awkward situation, but Sammy didn't need to hear that either.

"Right, as I was saying, I've got the Impala and summer's just around the corner, and, uh," Dean stumbled over his words, regretting that he'd brought it up, "school's out soon, so if you wanted to, you know, for old time's sake…" he drifted off into shameful muttering.

"That'd be great, yeah."

Dean waited for the _but_.

"Dean? You still there?"

He briskly shook himself. "Uh, so a road trip?"

Sam snorted. "Just as long as it doesn't involve, you know," his voice got quiet, "_hunting_."

Dean smiled and shook his head. Yeah, right. "No promises, little brother. Trouble's got a nifty little trick of finding us Winchesters."

"Yeah, well, Winchesters have a funny way of looking for it," said Sam.

Dean shrugged. "What can I say, it keeps me busy." He remembered his brother's (many) opinions on John's – and now his— livelihood when Sam didn't answer right away. "It's important, Sam," he said quietly. "What we do? It saves lives."

"It ends them too," Sam snapped. Dean winced, wishing he'd never mentioned it.

"I don't want a fight, Sammy," he sighed heavily.

"I'm just saying—" Sam cut himself off, huffing impatiently. "You know, there's more to life than following Dad all over the country. Don't you want more, Dean?" His voice was desperate, like he needed to hear that his brother suddenly grew a backbone, or at least had an independent thought of his own. (Well, that's how it sounded to Dean).

Dean flinched. "I'm where I'm supposed to be."

A pause. "Okay." Dean couldn't help but feel he'd somehow answered incorrectly.

His phone beeped, telling him he had another call coming in. It was probably Pastor Jim or Bobby calling to ask if he'd seen John lately. Like he had a clue. "Listen, Sammy, I gotta get going now. I know you're at your cushy university, but stay safe, alright? Don't get sloppy."

Sam snorted. "Got it." In a more serious tone, he added, "You too, Dean. Take care of yourself."

"Happy Birthday, Sammy," he grinned into the receiver. "Don't be a stranger." He waited for Sam to hang up first before taking the incoming call.

"Yeah?" he said curtly, no other introduction needed. The only people with the number to the burner knew exactly who they were calling.

"I need you in Cleveland in three hours." The gruff voice wasn't the one Dean expected; these days John Winchester wasn't exactly big on communication. "Skinwalkers. Thought you might want in on the action." That was Winchester speak for_ In hot water, bail me out. _

Dean swallowed. "Dad? I'm—uh, did you say Cleveland?" In three hours? From _Minnesota_? That was a bit of stretch but—

"Can you swing it?"

Of course he could swing it.

"Yeah," Dean rubbed his eyes, knowing the forty-five minute power nap he sneaked in at that truck stop in Wisconsin was the only sleep he was going to get for the next twenty-four hours. "Yeah. Ah, where…?"

"I already sent the address."

"Right," he rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll see you in three hours then."

He slid into the front seat, slamming the door after him. Dean took a moment to let himself relax; the Impala's worn leather worked better than the best shrink in the business. As he turned the key, feeling Baby purr to life, he knew that road trip he'd talked so enthusiastically about would never happen. Sam was right about one thing: no matter which way you looked at it, Winchesters and trouble went hand in hand. Like peanut butter and jelly. Silver and holy water. And as much of a selfish sonovabitch as he was, he didn't want that for Sammy. No, Sam was right where he belonged.

And if Dean ever had the faintest feeling that maybe he possibly wanted something more than the empty road and a glove compartment full of burner phones and fake IDs, well he'd better suck it up, buttercup.

He had a job to do.


End file.
